Paranormal Experiences Aren't All That Strange When You Are An Antique Dealer

ANTIQUES THAT HOLD THEIR SPIRITS - I'VE HAD A FEW OVER THE YEARS

Even as a kid, trundling home from school, there were things I found along the way, that I couldn't resist scooping up as found-treasure. I'd arrive home to our Burlington apartment, with pockets full of this and that, leaving my mother Merle to figure out, when I wasn't looking, how to free our abode of toads, grasshoppers, old bits of metal, some shiny rocks, and chestnuts in various stages of decomposition. She threw out three quarters of everything I collected, from broken hockey sticks, to neat old bottles found down in the ravine of Ramble Creek.

I was attracted to certain things by forces unknown. At least that's what Merle used to tell the neighbors when she saw me coming up Harris Crescent with pockets bulging and overflowing, while swinging a ball bat, or old hockey stick I found alongside the road. Strangely though, she was right about some things, about those early acts of acquisition. There was something that "made me do it," and it wasn't a voice in my head, directing my actions. It was a feeling then, just as it has always been throughout my collecting life. I will encounter a relic, an antique or collectible in a shop, at a yard sale, or at an auction, that I'm drawn to for more than the capital value. As an antique dealer I do operate on a for-profit basis, even though my wife, the accountant, questions this frequently, when I come home with something else truly bizarre, to what we normally acquire to refurbish and re-sell.

One of most poignant recollections, of a childhood experience, where I truly felt in the company of the spirits, came in a most casual, spontaneous way, making me feel on that particular day, as if I was being urged by something unknown, to visit an old house in the neighborhood, only a few days from being crushed by earth movers. It was to make way for the construction of a large apartment tower amidst some wonderful late Victorian architecture. The old estate, on Torrance Avenue, that looked so storied and charming amidst the wreath of venerable old hardwoods, and the ever-popular chestnut grove bordering the road, was facing its last few days as prominent architecture in our neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario. Which was a short hike to the shore of Lake Ontario, and a place that was often brushed by thick morning fog, and the muted sound of fog-horns from huge freighters passing somewhere on the bay. It was a little bit Hollywood, in scenery, perfect for a ghost story, but at this time of my young, impressionable life, I didn't have much knowledge of spirits or their ilk. I was just a curious little snot, usually with the arse ripped out of his pants, and a tangle of torn knee patches on both legs, with pockets-full of interesting livestock etc.

On this one afternoon, coming home from Lakeshore Public School, my chums and I paused to look at the sad old relic, awaiting the final blows of the wrecking ball, to bring it all down to earth. It had been left this way, for some time, and it didn't take too much chiding, and daring before we decided to muster the bravado to challenge what our parents had instilled in us about private property, and no trespassing, and see the heart of this house before it was no more. I had been fighting this urge for weeks, and there wasn't a time when old house and kid exchanged glances, that I didn't feel the tug on the old heart-strings, to make a friendly visit. Of course, I was a collector, even as a kid, so I imagined there would be all sorts of stuff strewn about, to haul home for Merle to then throw out. You know, I sort of suspected she was culling my stuff, but I wanted to believe she was removing it from my room, to pack away in those old trunks I knew she stored in the basement. What a fool I was. My wife has been known to exercise similar culls but I'm seasoned to the ways of neat freaks, and intercept the garbage before it is gone forever. On more than just a few occasions I've had to pull a collectible from a garbage hauler's clutches, before it wound up in the crusher in the back of that truck.

The house invited us. We all felt it. We all knew, well in advance, we were going to trespass, consequences be damned! But it was the mysterious allure the house possessed, much as if someone quite invisible, was beckoning from the half-wrecked doorway, to come inside for a wee peak.

Once inside that door, it was a treat for the senses. It was quite dilapidated by this point of its forced-decline, and there had been doors and built-in cabinets ripped from the walls, corner cupboards unfastened, leaving ugly holes in the wall. Even the mantle was gone and everywhere there was evidence of home-wreckers having swung their hammers and prying bars. There were broken Christmas ornaments strewn on the floor, and pages from old magazines and newspapers crumpled in corners and in doorless closets. There were dishes on an old table, and drinking glasses on the remnants of a kitchen counter. As we chums wandered slowly, in awe, from room to room, we picked up little keepsakes from the floor, that attracted our darting and weaving span of attention, in the lowly lit environs of what had once been, a truly magnificent home.

What we all experienced on that afternoon, exploring the soon-to-be-toppled house, was strangely significant to the area of the building we travelled. I can remember rooms on the main floor that were bright and cheerful, even with diffused light from outside. At times we'd feel giddy and giggle in echo through the empty rooms. Then I'd be consumed by a feeling of dread, then sudden sadness, and without warning, my heart would begin to race, as if my soul had met something ominous I was yet to be fully aware. Each passage-way, every room, each light from a window, made the house look cheery then profoundly eerie within a short footfall. I had little idea what it meant to be "haunted" or to be in a haunted house, except what I may have felt on Hallowe'en dressed up with a sheet with two eye-holes cut out…..or what I could have watched on the television, that presented something malevolent as subject matter. This was a feeling poignantly strange, and it sank into my mind with great ease, that I was walking through a place that was still very much occupied by entities I really needed to understand. The more intense the feeling, the more I wanted to explore the reasons for sensing my surroundings in this way.

Even to this day, I get clear and profound impressions of houses, and their occupants, many from past lives, by just walking up to the front door of a home. I'm not clairvoyant and have no aspirations to hang out a shingle that I'm the new medium on the block. But since that exploratory mission, into that old Burlington estate, my senses have been ever-activated. Admittedly, some houses seem to repel me, more than welcome my visitation. I respect this. I'm not scared of these experiences but there's no way I will ever stop feeling the presence of occupants…….that aren't really there….at least in a mortal coil sort of way. Critics will argue that we all pick up the feel of an occupied house and should feel a sense of loss, walking through a vacant abode, especially like the one I've described above. Possibly then we are, by this measure, reacting instinctively to the aura of the human / structure relationship, that attempts to warn and advise us about the prevailing circumstances, or what has happened in the past. I feel the same about certain items of antique furniture, from old steamer trunks to cradles, dressers, flat-to-the-wall cupboards, especially those that have been handcrafted in pioneer workshops. I must admit, I have less reaction to factory manufactured pieces, admittedly with less interest by the attending carpenter,….in comparison to a handcrafted pine cradle for example, made by a doting father, full of expectation about a family on the way. The intensity of study on the piece, starts at this stage, and only grows greater over the years of its use and situation with its owner family…..and all the other owner /users from that time forward. Now consider the child spirit in the cradle and the occurrences following, and you have an intensity that is as much a part of the patina, as the color and wear of the aging wood and paint.

When I left that Burlington home, feeling satisfied that I'd seen the house from basement to attic, there was no doubt in my mind, leaving that tired and broken building, that it was still very much an inhabited estate, and that my mates and I had, in some small way, stirred up the invisible residents on a sort of farewell tour. I grabbed a number of souvenirs from that trip, and I don't remember just what was in my hand while exiting, but the most important aspect of the afternoon, was that I learned something about strong feelings, history, and connectedness from one generation to another…..seen and unseen. In fact, for 56 years, 35 in professional authordom, I have kept that fledgling, exciting, insightful experience close to my heart; such that in one way or another, it has been used as inspiration a thousand times or more, in a wide variety of writing projects. I could never, no matter how many words expended, detail with any precision or corresponding common sense, how this old, soon-to-be-gone house, became my sort-of muse for all these years; that you too might honestly share the sense of union I felt, amongst those wafting memories and unspecified regrets, ghosts maybe, that haunted those rooms until the walls finally tumbled down. They apparently found a home in my subconscious, where we've been revisiting the old haunt regularly, always finding that place and time in my personal history, something worth maintaining and a story eagerly retold.

I would like to, in coming blogs, illustrate this point more clearly, by profiling some experiences I've had over the decades, as an antique dealer, frequently attracted to pieces that may or may not be haunted…..somewhat as I felt strangely compelled to enter an old house, on the off chance, of finding something neat to scoff. While it's a stretch, obviously, to compare an old cedar trunk, with provenance, to an historic estate, my exposure to the sensation of occupation, as a child, has inspired a great awareness as a collector…..that some pieces, strange or not, have an attraction that goes well beyond the patina of the wood, or the feel of the fabric. Truth is, I can feel something extra, as if the essence of the item's builder, or former owner….a child, possibly, is still somehow connected. There are many stories told of cradles rocking without an occupant or attendant, rocking chairs moving of their own accord, and organs playing without the slightest touch of mortal hand. My stories aren't quite so compelling and interesting, but we've had a few unusual events attached to certain acquired pieces. Nothing fearful or disturbing. Just curious in a paranormal context.

Maybe you have felt the same at times. Feeling it necessary to stop at an antique sale, to examine a piece that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't think twice about acquiring. What made you stop for a second look? Did your grandmother have something similar? Could it be a sign from someone who has crossed, trying to remind you about a favorite quilt or cushion, old rocking horse or cradle, that you used to play with when visiting. For those who validate the existence, in spirit form, of those who have crossed over, few would deny the possibility, that sentiment and emotion are routinely tweaked by forces unknown, to make us aware of our past…..and our future; if we only had a few moments to ponder the associations, and signs apparent. I wander around, most of the time, with this openness to suggestion….willingness to entertain even the slightest remembrance, that puts me in mind of those friends and family who were so important to my well being. When my wife hears me laughing at something, while on an antique shop walk-about, she recognizes immediately, Ted's had a poignant reminiscence…..quite out of the blue. Always in the strangest, and most obscure of places in the shop, it seems. But I know, as soon as I enter, like my feeling of all buildings, something is going to tap me on the shoulder, or peak my curiosity, and moreso than a for-profit purchase, I will likely be hauling something home that, I love saying to my wife, "spoke to me!"

I don't see dead people as such. I feel them though. I sense them, and quite enjoy the feeling and enthralling allure of a limitless universe of possibility, where there are no rules of engagement. As some folks say, "you just go with the flow."

More adventures to come. Please join me.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

The Feeling I Lived Another Life -

The Haunted Writer.....Never A Dull Moment But Always Lots to Write About

There have been hundreds of times in my life, thus far, when I'd be overwhelmed by some strange, unexpected circumstance of location, atmosphere, aroma and particular visitation, that made me feel temporarily heart-sick. Many of us will, at some time in our respective travels, have feelings that caress a sensitive, nostalgic chord on that heavenly harp. A moment in time and place that reminds us we've been here before; experienced the aroma and atmosphere, the street scene or architecture before......and we kid about it to others as being memories from a past life.......not really thinking about the implication of having lived an earlier life,... just as cliche, repeating a familiar line that fits the occasion. Is it possible you did live in this neighborhood before, and that arriving here now was providential......a place that by some divine intervention or otherwise you simply had to visit?

I have experienced these strange ongoing pangs frequently since childhood. My first years of life living in Burlington, Ontario, may have been the most profound of all the years, as I spent much time feeling that what surrounded me on this urban landscape....and shoreline area of Lake Ontario, was way too familiar for my five to eight years of age. I can place myself now so clearly on the hillside of what was known as Torrance Avenue I believe, situated several lots before the intersection of Harris Crescent,..... where we lived in a modst three story brick-clad apartment abutting a valley where Ramble (or Rambo) Creek trickled all the live long day. On those hazy bright autumn days after most of the hardwood leaves had covered-over the lawns and lanes, I remember arriving at this halfway climb up the hillside, and stopping to watch my contemporaries playing in the piled leaves of an old Victorian era estate, wreathed by venerable old hardwoods on the left hand side of Torrance, yet never (on numerous occasions I saw the youngsters) taking even the smallest step forward to join them. I would just stand there as if I was watching the play of ghosts; like looking into a snow-globe; instead of flurries the colored leaves fluttered down in a sad yet remarkable reminder of not only a season's decline but our own seasons of life.

It was as if I was in those leaves up to my neck, playing, tossing handfuls at my chums......yet I was on the outside looking in at those children that I knew but couldn't for the life of me repeat their names. Even four and a half decades later, I can not ascertain whether, on these occasions, I was watching something real take place, or that my imagination was being manipulated by the sheer history of this old nostalgia-haunted estate. When I did use to play in the thickly overgrown ravine behind the estate, there was always a point of travel when these feelings intensified. There was an old garden shelter of lattice-work situated halfway up the hill, that offered a bench to the weary who had climbed up the path from the basin. It was pretty ramshackle in my day (late 1950's early 1960's) but it was the point where the almost oppressive melancholy set in, and sitting on the one remaining bench, this voyeur could sense very clearly there were many others in the vicinity even though nobody other than my mates was visible. It was very much a haunted feeling at a time when I had no clue about what constituted the spirit-kind, and what being in the presence of an alleged ghost might feel like. Instead it was quite a sad feeling for an otherwise happy kid, that there was something strikingly unique about the property. I wasn't repelled by it at any time. I was however, abundantly aware that there was something here worth remembering because for these many years, I kept it conserved, as if pressed like flowers in an old book. Just as it was profound then, on reflection, it is just as clear and thought provoking now.

When they tore the old mansion down to build an apartment tower, I remember feeling quite angry that this beautiful old building with its kids and keepers was to be sacrificed when there was so much other room to build, even on that street at that time. There was a huge market garden on the top end of the street that was better for building-on anyway than the treed crest of this hillside. But who was I to stand in the way of urban progress. As I have found out since, the scene I witnessed on that hillside, kids playing in the leaves, probably was more vivid imagination than fact, as the estate had stood childless for many years, with only a small number of occupants in the years leading up to its unceremonious destruction. Did I see ghosts at play? Or did I see myself in another life, actually residing on that storied property above Lake Ontario. Or as I have pondered many times, was it the germination of the seeds of a writer's life about to be?

I don't want to give the impression that I have these deja-vu moments every day, and see ghosts by the dozens on my frequent travels. This is not the case. I do however, trust my sensory perception that something I'm experiencing may be over and above the normal human fare of chance encounters. I am most certainly the pesky, reporter-kind (by profession), ever-questioning, who wants to know as much about life and after-life as possible, while at the same time not being crowded into a religious box by obligation and blind faith. When I get this strange "I've been here before," feeling, I study as much as possible about the circumstance, wishing to know why the sensation has engulfed me at this curious time and place. I have few answers after all these years, even after reading many books on re-incarnation and information written by others who have similarly regular experiences with the paranormal. I don't resist these feelings no matter how sad or depressed they may be at the time......much as the old tale re-told after we get an unexpected shiver - that "someone (just then) must have walked over your grave (from a previous life)."

I can be totally humbled by a piece of music, almost to tears, because it reminds me of this past life.....music that I've never heard before, making me feel a strange kinship to another time, another place.....possibly an exotic situation. Elizabethan period music can stagger me at times, making it clear in its own haunting orchestral way, that I was alive during this period.....and that I should....I must reckon with the connection. On reflection, if re-incarnation has played any role in this writer's life, the subtle and gentle reminders I receive, and have been influenced by since early childhood, have been quite undramatic (not the kind of material that would make a good thriller for Hollywood),....much as if a simple crumb trail to encourage me to quest onward.....to seek out the road least travelled to more deeply explore life's mysteries. A challenge possibly to locked-in contemporary thought that life is what it is and not one shred of anything beyond demise.

While I confess at times to feeling quite unsettled by a few of these history-bound events of atomic deja-vu, I look forward to them now as clues about existence and beyond. I'm still questing for more answers but I am resigned to the fact I'll die long before I've discovered the true meaning of life.

There are many people, authors, movie script writers, novelists who portray the paranormal in a most grotesque manner, frightening us away from ever wanting to know more about spirit-kind because of the inherent risk to life and limb. While I would say that my life has been paranormally involved for many years, it hasn't been by choice, stubborn insistence, or any mental or physical intent to conger up those who have passed for personal gain. Embellishment has never come to mind and I've never made one dime as a writer feeding a readership fiction. I will never treat paranormal experience with anything but reverence and validation. My stories here and whenever they are published are done free of charge, with no real concern about anything more than the connection with others who have had similar life enhancing experiences, with what may or may not be paranormal by the scholars' definition.

Maybe you are walking by a mom and pop corner store in some old neighborhood in Toronto, for example, and get this tug on a heart-string for no apparent reason.....a sense of familiarity that would initially suggest you had something to do with this building, this site, this neighborhood in the past yet no proof of having ever been here before. It could be a feeling of out-of-place nostalgia driving through the countryside just before sunset on some early winter's eve, and seeing an illuminated room of an old farmstead, and feeling drawn to its interior much as if you are long-absent kin finally returning home. One might even be able to feel the warm thrust of air from the cookstove, when entering the house in some other life.....the smell of freshly baked bread and a simmering stew....all mindfully playing without having to step one foot out of the car. Feeling the presence of a lost friend or family member at your side, during a stroll down a leaf-covered lane in late October, or hearing some familiar song when no musician has come forth to play. What a peaceful reminiscence to enjoy. I think my life would be very plain indeed without these playful, spirited reminders of something special just beyond our mortal reach.

As you read through the following editorial pieces, please keep it in mind that this is not a blog-site devoted to validating paranormal realities, as a few of us see and experience them regularly. Rather they are honest stories about interesting encounters that have all been rewarding in one way or another, without ever being anything more than unsettling. Frightening? Never! Messages within? Possibly.

While a tad more energetic than the family history my wife has been working on for the past two years, my quest for information on past lives is a little harder to cut down to specifics but a lot of fun to participate in just the same. Enjoy these blog entries for what they are......a connection with a very strange and endearling nostalgia that may well be a little haunted around the edges. Have a safe and memorable journey. Many more blogs to come.